


Beholden

by Catamaran



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Jaskier Is Not Useless, M/M, Monster of the Week, Pining, Plot, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Toss a coin to your witcher, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catamaran/pseuds/Catamaran
Summary: There was a pause, and the Witcher’s eyes slid to Jaskier’s for a moment, a question lurking in his yellow gaze. ‘Are you sure?’The bard met his eyes and nodded minutely. For some reason, his throat felt a little tight at the idea that the Witcher was more concerned for his comfort than a potential job. Jaskier coughed to clear it, and gave a quick tug on Geralt’s wrist, gesturing with the mug of ale he was still holding for all three of them to come sit down.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 357





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, there weren't any monsters in the Witcher canon that suited my purposes exactly, so I adapted a monster from d&d instead. Hope you enjoy!

Jaskier flung himself into the chair across from Geralt, sitting in the only dark corner of an otherwise lively tavern. The bard’s face was flushed with pride and alcohol, and his pockets jingled noticeably with the weight of the coin he had earned after a few hours performing for the patrons of this establishment, who were now up to date on all of the White Wolf’s most recent heroic exploits.

“They love us here!” Jaskier proclaimed triumphantly, rattling his coin purse to underline his point. “Well, they love my singing about you, anyways,” he amended, casting a critical glance at Geralt’s unwelcoming face, fiercely intimidating to anyone who didn’t know him like Jaskier did.

“Hmmm,” the Witcher drew back an eyebrow and hummed derisively, his voice a low, growling baritone.

“Hmmmmmmm,” Jaskier mimicked him, scrunching his face into an exaggeratedly sour expression, laughter flashing in his eyes. The larger man looked unimpressed, but the bard could read between the lines on his face, that said the Witcher was feeling rather tolerant tonight. Eager to encourage this rare mood, Jaskier hailed the bartender, calling, “Another ale, miss! And two for my magnificent friend here!”

The lovely woman, bless her, gave him a nod and a smile and there was a mug in his hand and two more on the table not a minute later.

“Jaskier…” Geralt drew out his name in warning, but the bard was unaffected, kicking his boots up on the table and giving the other man a sparkling grin.

“Oh, come on, relax an inch!” he persuaded. “We’re flush with cash right now, there’s ale, food, and warm beds waiting, whether they be ours or those of some beautiful maidens.”

Geralt tilted his head in something like grudging acknowledgment, eyeing the bard. A second later, he drawled the word, “Magnificent?”, making Jaskier choke on his drink.

Uncharacteristically, a blush spread across the face of the shameless bard, which he hid with a cough and a chuckle. “You object?” he challenged the Witcher, who simply drew his gaze elsewhere with a slow shake of his head, amusement playing on the corners of his mouth. Jaskier grinned back, feeling a wave of contentment settle over him.

The rare moment was broken when the door of the tavern banged open, admitting a young man who looked like he’d seen the business end of a thorn bush. Scratches littered his arms and face, and one of his eyes had been blackened, sealed shut. His other eye was stretched wide with a look of terror that was incongruous with the lovely tavern he found himself in. And the man hadn’t even laid eyes on the hulking Witcher yet, so there was no ready explanation.

Said Witcher had immediately straightened in his chair, eyes locked on the newcomer as the man stood, breathing heavily, in the doorframe. Geralt’s nostrils flared, and his gaze narrowed in consideration. In the silence that had struck the room, Jaskier looked back and forth between his companion and the stranger, quickly making a decision.

Gripping a tankard of ale, the bard strode over, laying a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. The stranger whirled around to face him, grabbing the collar of his tunic, his face lit up with panic. Jaskier yelped and immediately threw his hands up at the same a chair scraped across the room. The wide-eyed bard risked a peek behind him to see Geralt now standing, hand on his sword and yellow eyes glaring beneath dangerously furrowed brows.

“Alright, everybody calm down, no need for violence,” Jaskier babbled nervously, trying and failing to back out of the grip that had him trapped. “I am _very_ sorry I startled you, good sir, so if you would be so kind as to release me, I will rejoin my _friend,”_ he jerked his head meaningfully towards Geralt. “And leave you in peace!”

His captor was no longer looking at Jaskier, but was staring intensely in the direction the bard had indicated. The man’s good eye had lost some of its fearful, manic edge, replaced with interest. “Is your friend, by chance, a Witcher?” he asked slowly.

“As it happens, he is,” Jaskier said, smugly. “The best on the continent, in fact! and if you could just _let me go_ , I’d be pleased to make some introductions-”

The bard stopped as he heard the even creak of footsteps approaching behind him, watched his captor’s eye track the movement.

“Drop the bard,” Geralt growled at his back. Some of the fear reappeared in the newcomer’s face, and he let Jaskier go. The bard immediately retreated to the Witcher’s side, making a show out of dusting himself off and adjusting his collar, shooting angry glances at the man.

“Witcher,” the man said to Geralt, chin raised. “I have a job for you.” Geralt’s only response was to regard him with a long stare, his face unreadable.

Jaskier was still feeling ruffled and irritated by the events of the last few minutes, but selflessly put his personal feelings aside to suggest, “Why don’t we go discuss this at our table?”

There was a pause, and the Witcher’s eyes slid to Jaskier’s for a moment, a question lurking in his yellow gaze. _‘Are you sure?’_

The bard met his eyes and nodded minutely. For some reason, his throat felt a little tight at the idea that the Witcher was more concerned for his comfort than a potential job. Jaskier coughed to clear it, and gave a quick tug on Geralt’s wrist, gesturing with the mug of ale he was still holding for all three of them to come sit down.

“Come on, no point in making more of a scene,” he said as the two men slowly followed him to the table. The bard waited until they had settled before asking, “So, I’m assuming this job has something to do with why you burst in here looking like… that?” he gestured flippantly to the man’s injuries.

The stranger ignored Jaskier, addressing Geralt instead. “My name is Brom,” he said shortly. “I require your services, Witcher, to rid our region of an abomination.”

Geralt merely grunted, waiting for the details. When Brom was not forthcoming, he prompted, annoyed, “What _kind?_ ”

“The likes of which you’ve never seen before,” said the man grimly, his good eye darkening. Hearing this dramatic pronouncement, Jaskier barely contained a scoff. During his travels with the Witcher, the bard had found there were very few monsters he hadn’t been personally acquainted with. Glancing beside him, it seemed by the Witcher’s flat expression that he felt much the same.

“Describe it to me,” Geralt spoke slowly, condescending, as his limited patience wore thin. Truthfully, prolonged exposure to Jaskier had extended it somewhat, but this only meant he could suffer fools for _slightly_ longer before someone ended up in a lake.

“A mad sorceress summoned it, using dark magic,” Brom said finally, his voice scared and angry. “When she caught her lover with another woman. The witch was furious, but she still couldn’t bear to hurt the man, so she sent it to capture the poor girl he had fucked. It tormented her with dark visions, growing stronger off of her fear, until she finally died.” The man’s hands curled into fists, as he continued. “The witch was captured and hanged, but the creature could not be contained. It’s dwelled in the mountains for the past three months, taking people from the outskirts of towns to feed on. Mostly women and children,” he added with a snarl of disgust.

“Hmmm,” came Geralt’s response. Jaskier could tell he was considering it, and decided to get to the meat of the issue.

“What’s your offer?” he asked Brom shrewdly, leaning slightly across the table. The man curled his lip, but responded to the bard.

“400 ducat. Half up front, half once he gets the job done.”

At this, the Witcher nodded. “Fine,” Geralt agreed shortly. “It will be done tomorrow.” With that, he stood from his chair and took his leave, walking towards the stairs that led to the room they had rented earlier. Jaskier followed at his heels, shooting a last glance at Brom.

The room they entered was nice, nicer than many of those they had stayed in before. There were two comfortable beds, a window that faced the forest outside, oil lamps, and a large bathtub that Jaskier would most certainly be taking advantage of after the hunt to get the Witcher to a state approaching clean.

With a quiet grunt, Geralt settled on the bed closest to the door, taking only his boots off before pulling the blankets over his bulk. Jaskier copied him on the other mattress, stripping out of his doublet as well before crawling under the covers and adjusting his pillow.

The bard hummed to himself as he got comfortable, pausing to address the motionless form on the other bed. “Geralt, what did you think about that terrible ‘Brom’ fellow?” he asked, affront showing through his tone. “We may have just met the first person with worse manners than you!”

Geralt groaned slightly. “Bard. Quiet.”

Jaskier made a face in the dark. “Oh yes, God forbid you don’t get your beauty rest,” the bard muttered under his breath, shifting slightly.

The silver-haired Witcher rolled over halfway to give Jaskier a Look, tired yellow eyes glowing in the faint moonlight. Jaskier met his gaze and gave a small huff. From this distance Geralt could easily see how his lips curled into a pout. “Alright, alright,” the bard relented, moving to face the ceiling. “Sleep well, Geralt.”

The Witcher let out a strange grunt that resembled an aborted ‘goodnight’, turning back over and letting himself sink into sleep.

The next morning, Jaskier awoke to blankets being cruelly ripped off his body. He made a startled noise of protest, opening his eyes to the impassive face of his travelling companion.

“Get up,” Geralt told him. Jaskier curled in on himself involuntarily, shuddering at the sudden chill.

“Already, Geralt?” he complained, nonetheless dragging himself into an upright position with a yawn. “Has the sun even risen yet?”

“No. Which gives you plenty of time to ready Roach before we leave at sun up.”

“You know, if I had wanted to constantly feed, water, brush, and saddle a horse I never got to ride, I would’ve become a stable boy,” Jaskier muttered, forcing his feet into boots.

“It is never too late,” the Witcher returned, rudely. He made for the door before Jaskier could get himself too worked up over the comment, unwilling to endure the bard’s offended gasping and sputtering this early in the day.

Within the hour they were on the path to the mountains, Jaskier’s voice breaking the fresh morning air before even the songbirds had their chance to sing.

“Geralt, what do you think we’re actually going to find in that mountain?” Jaskier asked, softly strumming his lute as he walked beside Roach. His companion on the horse gave a non-committal grunt. “Do you think it will be dangerous?” the bard pressed.

“Hmph. Probably.”

“Nothing you can’t handle, though,” Jaskier assured him.

“Hmm.”

The bard looked up at him, blue eyes assessing. “Aren’t you worried it’ll…” he waved a hand vaguely. “ _Feed_ on you? On your… fear, or whatever?”

The Witcher turned his head, silvery hair and golden eyes catching the morning sun, to give Jaskier a long-suffering stare.

“Oh, oh, of course,” said the bard, in an exaggerated voice, widening his eyes. “Big, bad Witcher doesn’t feel fear, is that right?”

Geralt made a grunt of agreement, ignoring the bard’s scoff. The rest of the traveling passed in much the same fashion, with the bard chattering and speculating, and the Witcher occasionally deigning a grunt.

It took about half the day to arrive at the base of the local mountain range. Jaskier observed subtly as the Witcher’s nostrils flared, tracking the stench of magic. His enhanced senses steered them to a cavity carved into the side of the rock.

As they approached the mouth of the cave, Geralt lifted his chin and set his jaw slightly. “Hmm.” His yellow eyes flashed, and he pulled Roach to a stop.

“What?” Jaskier asked. Then, when he got no response, “Geralt? What is it?”

The Witcher glanced down at the bard. “Stay here.” His brusque tone brooked no argument. Of course, this meant nothing to Jaskier, who simply rolled his eyes.

“I’m not a hound, you know,” he protested.

“No? You whine like one,” Gerald replied flatly, sliding off Roach’s back and stalking towards the cavern. The bard muttered something unflattering about female dogs and their offspring as he was left behind. The Witcher tuned him out as he entered the darkness, eyes adjusting to grant him sight.

At first, it would seem the cave was totally empty, were it not for the insistent buzz of magic at the base of Geralt’s skull, that told him his quarry was near. The Witcher drew his sword, the little light reflecting off of the silver blade as he advanced further into the unknown.

The cave was deeper than he had initially thought, and still Geralt saw nothing, until the sound of a stifled sob pricked his hearing. He turned his head, tracing the noise to a large alcove tucked into the cave wall. It was spacious enough to be its own cavern, but wasn’t obvious to the eyes, even ones that could see in the dark.

As he approached, the sobs and cries grew louder, until Geralt entered to see around ten people lying on the ground, bound against the stone wall with some kind of rope, all of them shaking and crying in fear. They hardly seemed to notice his presence, and the Witcher realized that their glassy stares were fixed on something else. Something above his head.

Jaskier grumbled, kicking at a stone as he waited outside the cave. The motion made Roach nicker and whisk her tail. “Left holding the reins yet again,” the bard groused, stroking a hand down the horse’s soft neck. She, like her master – although he wouldn’t admit it – had warmed up to Jaskier in the year he had been travelling on-and-off with them.

The bard frowned at the leering mouth of the cavern Geralt had disappeared into nearly ten minutes prior. Despite the Witcher’s preposterous claim that Jaskier ‘lacked the very basest intuition about anything’, this cave gave him a bad feeling. And the fact that none of the usual sounds of battle were echoing out gave him a downright nasty one.

“We’ll give him another couple minutes, girl,” Jaskier decided, absently patting Roach’s nose. His worried gaze remained fixed on where he’d last seen Geralt. “Then I’ll go and check on our Witcher.”

Geralt spun, luminous eyes widening slightly upon pinpointing the focus of the bound townsfolks’ fearful stares. He’d made a rookie mistake, and the Witcher briefly cursed himself before brandishing his sword. Never forget to look up.

Above him, in the corner of the cave floated an enormous, detached eyeball with a gaping, toothy maw. Large, fleshy tendrils trailed from the back of the creature, creeping along the stone ground to bind its unfortunate captives, who shuddered and cried out, apparently transfixed by the haunting, all-consuming gaze of the monster.

With a snarl, Geralt brought his sword up in an arc to hack at the nearest tendril, bringing the blade down on surprisingly tough flesh. Instead of cleaving straight through the appendage, it stuck not halfway through, and Geralt had to pull hard to wrench the sword out.

At the blow, the monstrosity let out an excruciating screech, that wreaked havoc on the Witcher’s sensitive hearing, forcing him to clap both hands to his ears with a sharp “Fuck!” as his sword clattered to the ground

The wailing eye slowly descended towards him, turning its hypnotic gaze on the Witcher, who stared it right back. All of a sudden, images blurred to life in Geralt’s head, visions of pain and violence flashing through his skull. An ordinary man would have been sobbing with fear at the horrors before him. Luckily, Geralt was neither a man, nor, by any stretch of the imagination, ‘ordinary’.

The Witcher tossed his head once to regain focus, his mind clearing, and retrieved his weapon. He bared his teeth in a merciless smile. “Is that all you got?”

He turned, chopped at the wounded tendril a second time, severing it. Black blood spewed from the wound. This time, Geralt was ready, tossing his blade in the air so he could cover his ears before the monster shrieked again.

The Witcher caught his sword by the handle as soon as the sound faded. The eye was still hovering just out of reach of his blade, so he cast around for another limb to amputate.

“Geralt?”

The Witcher briefly froze as he heard the faint call echoing off the stone. Fuck. He mentally willed the idiot bard to stay away, but when had Jaskier ever done what he wished? The monstrosity above him shifted its gaze from Geralt to the mouth of the chamber, anticipating an easier victim. At this, the Witcher growled and drove his sword into more sinew.

The creature let out another scream that he bore with a grimace. Over it, he heard a more urgent shout of his name, and the soft patter of footsteps quickly approaching. “Damn it, Jaskier, STAY AWAY!” he roared.

Despite his lack of talent for self-preservation, the Witcher knew the bard felt fear keenly, and would no doubt fall under the same spell that had captured the humans moaning in terror behind him. ‘Please, bard,’ he prayed silently. ‘Just once, do as you’re told…’

Of course, this was not to be. Jaskier’s face emerged from the darkness, his eyes widening at the sight of the fiend hovering over him. He let out a cry as the eye froze him in its stare, the bard’s expression giving way to deepest dread.

“Fuck!” Geralt hissed, taking a step towards Jaskier, who had begun to weep silently, his arms hanging limply at his sides. The monster took advantage of the Witcher’s distraction to lash a tendril around his thigh, yanking the leg out from under him.

Geralt hit the ground. He struggled to free himself, using both hands to pry at the appendage, but its grip was like iron. More limbs whipped themselves around his wrists and torso as the monstrosity, larger than before and drunk on power, drifted towards him, its jaws gaping.

The Witcher shot a glance at Jaskier’s petrified state, then at the terrified captives the monster had been drawing its strength from. A crazy idea took shape in his head, a last resort. Going against every fibre of his being, the Witcher uttered the desperate words.

“Jaskier! Sing something!”

The bard’s attention snapped to the bound Witcher. Jaskier’s blue eyes shone wide and bright with terror. At first, he didn’t seem to register the command, paralyzed with fear as he was, but when Geralt barked it a second time, a spark of recognition appeared.

Far too slowly, he fumbled his lute from its case and strummed the strings with shaking fingers. There was only one song he could think to play. 

"When a humble bard,

Graced a ride along

With Geralt of Rivia

Along came this... song,"

Jaskier’s voice trembled like his hands, higher and thinner than his usual rich tone, but the cave amplified it with a dramatic echo. Under better circumstances, the bard would be admiring the outstanding acoustics offered by the ragged stone walls. As it was, he was more concentrated on not wetting himself.

Meanwhile, Geralt continued to struggle, grunting, against the fleshy tendrils that held him. The monstrosity’s cavernous maw yawned wide as it let out another awful screech, revealing rows upon rows of sharp fangs. The Witcher bared his own teeth in response.

Jaskier continued to deliver each verse, picking up steam as he traded his fear for the feeling of music on his fingertips and tongue. At the back of the cave, the captive townspeople were quieting, and beginning to listen intently to the rousing melody pouring forth, their glazed, petrified expressions slowly changing. One young girl began to brokenly hum the tune.

A thin tendril that had wrapped around Geralt’s bicep weakened, lost its grip, and he ripped his arm away, grabbing the monster’s delicate appendage and sinking his sharp teeth into it. The enormous eye vibrated in a shudder, whipping its tendrils around and letting out another ear-piercing wail.

The bard carried on, belting out the words to his most popular composition. He had performed under worse conditions, Jaskier reminded himself, as his voice bounced around, filling the air. Now all of the formerly terrified captives were singing along, their fear dissipating as their voices joined his in the chorus. Led by the bard, they yelled, defiantly,

"TOSS A COIN TO YOUR WITCHER!

O Valley of Plenty,

O Valley of Plenty,

Oh-oh-oh,"

The monster’s hold loosened all at once, freeing the townsfolk as its iris clouded. Without terror to fuel its magical strength, it was weak. Its only option was to flee, tendrils dragging behind along the stone as the abomination hovered towards the entrance of the cave, towards Jaskier, whose own eyes widened.

Then there was only the disgusting _shhhhlick_ sound of silver slicing through gelatinous flesh, as the Witcher stepped between them, blocking its path and buried his sword to the hilt in the sclera.

The infernal light in its pupil faded, and the corpse fell to the ground in a pile of mush and teeth. Geralt immediately checked behind him, eyes searching and landing on Jaskier. “Bard, are you…” the Witcher stopped, observing that an expression of absolute awe had installed itself on the bard’s face.

“…Fuck,” muttered Geralt as he withdrew his sword, dreading what was to come out of Jaskier’s mouth once he stopped letting his jaw hang open like a gormless idiot. If he wasn’t careful, a wyvern might accidently fly down his throat. The Witcher brushed roughly by the bard and out of the cave, heading straight for Roach. If they were fast, perhaps he could drink in blessed silence for a few hours before Jaskier made it back to the town on foot.

Alas, it was too late. The bard had already begun waxing poetic.“My greatest ballad yet, possibly, the greatest of all time!” Jaskier gasped dramatically, eyes like saucers as he trailed behind. Geralt mounted his horse. “Using only his musical talents, Jaskier the Bard saves Geralt of Rivia, the Mighty Witcher, from certain death!”

At this, said Witcher delivered one of his most scathing glares to date, head tilted and yellow eyes narrowed. Had his mutation given him the ability to kill with a mean look, Jaskier would surely have been permanently silenced. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and the bard continued to prattle on, for once about his _own_ heroic actions. Behind them, the freed victims of the monster were helping each other out into the light, starting down the path to the village.

The Witcher gave Roach a gentle kick, spurring her to trot slightly faster than the slow pace he usually tolerated when he traveled with the bard, just so Jaskier would have to hasten his steps in order to keep up. This did not stop him, though the bard was slightly out of breath as he continued to sing his own praises. After a few feet, he looked up thoughtfully at Geralt and remarked, “You know, you would be dead right now if it wasn’t for me.”

“Perhaps then I wouldn’t have to hear about it any longer,” the Witcher growled, kindly _not_ bringing up the fact that Jaskier would have been dead many, _many_ times over if it wasn’t for his own presence. The bard gave an offended huff, a noise that Geralt was, by now, very familiar with. It was eerily similar to the sound produced by squeezing the bloated air sac of a selkiemore.

“You know, Geralt, it wouldn’t kill you to recognize my contributions for once,” Jaskier complained as he practically jogged alongside Roach so he wouldn’t be left behind.

At this, the Witcher pulled his horse to a sudden stop, turning slowly in his saddle to stare down the bard, who stumbled to a halt. “ _Jaskier_.” Forceful, in a rough voice that would make anyone sit up and pay attention. Jaskier quavered a little under the force of Geralt’s gaze, nervousness and defiance warring inside of him, but he managed not to break eye contact. There was a pause, and then,

“ _Thank_ you,” rumbled Geralt sincerely, leaning forward a little. “You did well.”

Suddenly, Jaskier was left in the dust, reddened and once again gaping like a fish as the Witcher spurred his steed away at a gallop, down the path back to town.

“I’m receiving some mixed signals!” The bard yelled after their retreating backs, standing in the middle of the dirt road. He shook his head. At least the long, lonely walk back would give him time to compose his most epic tale yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the characterization is alright! There's a thin line between making Geralt too mean, and making him too nice, lol.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would this really be a Witcher (2019) fic without a gratuitous bath scene?

It took a lot of ale to get Geralt, or any Witcher, properly drunk - the exact quantity was easiest measured in barrels. After a few tankards, though, his thoughts did begin to wander more freely. Sitting in the tavern, Geralt began to detachedly reflect on how his first instinct after a hunt had somehow become checking on the safety of the annoying bard who insisted on following him like a lost puppy, or perhaps some shit stuck to his boot. It was a little disturbing how the ridiculous minstrel had bypassed all of Geralt’s many boundaries with a smile and a song, refusing to be scared off despite a total lack of reciprocation towards Jaskier’s attempts at friendship. Instead, the bard had been loyal to a fault, quickly becoming an annoying constant in the Witcher’s life.

He couldn’t deny that, despite all the loathing he had for Jaskier’s apocryphal ballads, they had eased his reception in many a town, made work easier to find, and fearful whispers of _‘The Butcher’_ had all but ceased to follow him. And… sometimes, the Witcher could admit, the company wasn’t terrible. Or, it was, but at least it was company. Something Geralt had been lacking for a long time, and hadn’t known he’d been missing.

It turned out that talking to his horse and fucking the occasional whore did not, in fact, fulfill his requirement for ‘real human connection’, as Jaskier termed it. Never mind that Geralt wasn’t actually _human._

The Witcher was pulled out of his thoughts by a familiar scent that tickled his senses, made his mouth involuntarily twitch. The door opened, and the patrons of the tavern watched in amused silence as Jaskier dragged himself in, looking thoroughly exhausted. He pointed an accusatory finger at the Witcher. “That,” he declared, marching over, “was not very polite!” He tapped Geralt on the nose, as if he were disciplining a misbehaving dog, and the Witcher barely resisted the urge to snap at the offending digit.

As it was, he simply offered the bard a mocking smile, flashing his teeth. “Have a nice walk?”

Jaskier collapsed into a chair in answer, letting out a low moan. For some reason, this made the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck prickle. “I talked to some of the townspeople we rescued, on the way back,” the bard informed him. “Big fans of yours, now.” The Witcher grunted, a flash of guilt running through him that he hadn’t even bothered to check on the freed captives. He allowed himself a moment to dwell on it, before shoving the feeling down with all the rest of his regrets and fuck-ups.

The bard across from him was oblivious to this process, signalling the barmaid for an ale before leaning back obnoxiously in his chair. “Any sign of our lovely client yet?” Jaskier asked, voice muffled as he rubbed his face in exhaustion. Geralt grunted a negative. “Bastard probably thought we wouldn’t return,” the bard sniffed, flapping a hand. “Well, no matter. If he doesn’t show, we’ll find him.”

The Witcher raised both eyebrows at this casual threat issued from the bard’s mouth. He was about to respond, when in walked Brom, his eyes widening in surprise when they landed on Geralt and Jaskier. “Looks like we won’t have to,” remarked the Witcher as the man approached.

“You killed it?” Brom demanded, somewhat incredulously, staring down at the Witcher. Geralt tilted his head up to meet his gaze evenly, slowly nodded. The man almost looked like he wanted to demand some proof from the Witcher, but then noticed the silver hair stained with black blood, and thought better of it.

“Mm, actually, we both did,” Jaskier butted in to correct him. “And now, the other half of the payment…?”

Brom fished out a sack of coins, tossing it to Geralt, who caught it without looking. The Witcher weighed it in his palm, and grunted when it was deemed satisfactory.

“I suppose I have to thank you, Witcher,” the man nodded, although he sounded less than pleased about it. “Now that the abomination is gone, there is nothing left of that foul sorceress and her wicked magics.” At Brom’s vicious tone, the bard’s mouth fell open slightly.

"Ah.” Jaskier looked like he had just come to a realization.

“What?” Brom asked, suspicious.

“What? Oh, no, nothing, carry on, evil magics,” said Jaskier airily, fooling no-one.

“Out with it, bard.”

“Well… it had occurred to me, that you, Brom, might have had another motivation for hiring a Witcher, other than concern for your fellow citizens,” Jaskier mused deliberately. Geralt stared at the bard, unsure of where he was going with this, but quite sure it was going to get him punched. Jaskier leaned in towards Brom, a knowing look on his face. “It was you, wasn’t it? Who hid his sausage in the wrong pantry? Not well enough, I suppose.”

A look of growing hostility had been spreading over Brom’s face as the bard was speaking, and with the last sentence the man lunged forward, grabbing Jaskier by the throat and lifting him out of his chair. The bard choked, scrabbling uselessly against strong hands as Brom slammed him into a wall. “Shut your mouth, bard, unless you want to lose that pretty voice for good,” he hissed, dirty thumbnails digging into Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier gurgled, blinked, and suddenly, the pressure disappeared. Geralt had seized the man by his hair and dragged him away, out of the tavern, giving him a parting kick for good measure.

The Witcher bid Brom farewell, with a snapped, “Fuck _off.”_ He stomped back over to Jaskier, who was gently massaging his neck.

“God, why do they always have to go for the throat?” the bard bemoaned, fingers rubbing over purpling bruises.

“Have you lost your mind!?” Geralt barked in response, looking properly angry. Around them, tavern-goers were gawking at the scene, their drinks temporarily forgotten. “Come on,” he growled, leading Jaskier up the stairs and out of eyesight. Once they entered the room, the Witcher whirled on him. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Jaskier threw his hands up defensively, opening his mouth to make excuses. “Wha- well, I-I just wanted the full story!”

“Did you need to antagonize him like that?”

“Oh, what do you care, anyways?” the bard snorted, hands on his hips. Jaskier had the unnerving habit of actually meeting Geralt's unnatural gaze, staring up at him challengingly.

The Witcher made a low, frustrated noise, stepping closer. _“I’m_ the one who ends up having to save your arse every time! Why can you not just let sleeping dogs lie?”

Jasier scoffed. “Geralt, that is rude. Honestly, the Baron de Velen’s wife was not _that_ bad-”

The left corner of Geralt’s mouth pulled back as he glowered, letting Jaskier know that the Witcher’s patience was wearing thin, and soon he would storm out into the night and disappear, potentially for days. It was the bard’s cue to stop and let out a sigh, softening his gaze to look contrite.

“Sorry, Geralt.”

There was a long, tense moment. Then the Witcher grunted, still angry, but moving to sit down on the bed instead of vanishing to take his anger out on some unsuspecting ghouls, which Jaskier counted as a win. As Geralt bent to pull off his boots, the bard came over to perch beside him, laying a hand on the Witcher’s profoundly muscled shoulder.

“Look, why don’t you let me run you a hot bath?” Jaskier suggested, attempting to placate his companion with a friendly pat. “Then you can wash off all of the…” he picked something gross off of the armor, making a disgusted face. “Viscera, and whatnot.”

“Don’t touch me.”

The bard rolled his eyes and retrieved his hand, taking that response for a, _‘Yes, please, Jaskier, that would be lovely, because I reek like any number of unmentionable things and my hair is more black than white right now.’_

He rose, and promptly headed downstairs to chat with the innkeeper’s wife about having some water heated for a bath. Stayed, a little longer than was strictly necessary for the water to boil, coaxing a few giggles and blushes out of the lady, who had aged spectacularly well for 40. Finally, Jaskier sadly decided he’d had enough trouble for one evening, and bid the lovely maid goodnight with naught but a grateful kiss on the cheek.

The bard hauled the buckets of steaming water up the stairs by himself, groaning a little with the effort. The door to their shared room was thankfully, unlocked. Jaskier nudged it open with his shoulder to enter, and found himself facing Geralt’s broad back as he pulled his stained tunic over his head, leather armor already discarded in a neat pile. Jaskier’s breath stuttered to a halt as he stared at the expanse of bare, pale skin decorated haphazardly with scar tissue, stretched tightly over the Witcher’s massive frame. God, he was truly a statue of a warrior, the bard thought absently, as his eyes trailed downwards.

“That water’s getting cold, bard.” Jaskier jumped as he was addressed, liquid sloshing onto the floor, as Geralt spoke without turning around.

“O-oh! Uh, right, yes, hold on.” The tips of his ears were warm, undoubtedly red, and the bard pretended not to see the amused tilt to the Witcher’s lips, because he was a _professional,_ thank you very much. Geralt made no move to help him as Jaskier struggled to haul the water to the tub and splash it in, steam rising up like a curtain from the bath.

“There you go, nice and scalding, just how you like it.” Jaskier had learned that the Witcher could tolerate and enjoy much higher temperatures than most people. Geralt would probably bathe in magma if he could. He studiously looked elsewhere as the Witcher moved towards the tub, having stripped off the rest of his garb. He let out a pleased groan as he slid in, the hot water lapping against his bruised skin. A mostly-foreign concept, relaxation, stole over him.

Almost immediately, the effect was ruined by fingers pawing through his hair. “Do you want to keep those hands, bard?” the Witcher asked menacingly, eyes shut. Jaskier squawked in indignation, momentarily stilling.

“These hands have procured the coin for your dinner many a time, _Geralt_ , not to mention spread your name across the land. You could show a little respect!”

Geralt merely grunted, unimpressed, batting Jaskier away sharply when the bard continued to toy with his scalp. “Oi! For fuck’s sake, Geralt, I’m just taking your hair down to wash it!”

“I can bathe _myself.”_

“Really? I’ve yet to see proof,” Jaskier retorted. Nimbly avoiding the half-hearted attempts to smack his hands, he managed to yank out the piece of leather cord that kept Geralt’s bleached locks from falling into his face. The Witcher hissed as a few strands of hair came with it, making Jaskier roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. It’s lucky for you I don’t include this sort of thing in my songs.”

Geralt grumbled, but eventually permitted Jaskier to rub lavender-scented soap through his hair, returning the White Wolf’s mane to its titular glory. When the bard rinsed it out by pouring a pitcher over his head, the Witcher let out a deep sigh. He didn’t even protest when Jaskier began to firmly massage his neck and shoulders, digging the tension out of Geralt’s muscles as the Witcher enjoyed a rare moment of calm and pleasure.

Rare, and fleeting. That night, Geralt was awoken by soft, pitiful cries. Lifting his head to investigate, he saw Jaskier had thrown off his blankets in the night, sweating through the sheets despite the cold air. The bard was twitching violently, his face screwed up in discomfort.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, his voice even deeper than usual from sleep. It did nothing to wake the bard from his troubled slumber. The Witcher sighed, resigned, rolling out of bed to rouse Jaskier so they both might get some rest. He set a large hand on the bard’s shoulder, giving him a shake. At the touch, Jaskier’s eyes flew wide open, pupils dilated hugely in fear until his blue eyes shone black. He stared at the Witcher mutely, in pure terror, chest heaving and fear-stink rising off of him in waves.

“Jaskier,” Geralt started, faltering. Never before had the bard looked at him like that, like the Witcher was about to plunge sharp teeth into his throat, and it made an awful weight settle in Geralt’s chest. Slowly, too slowly, the bard came out of it, his eyes blinking in belated recognition.

“Oh, Geralt!” Jaskier attempted a hollow grin, voice hoarse. “My – apologies, did I wake you? I’m afraid I was having a, a bit of a nightmare.” A moment of silence, and he twisted his neck to glance, puzzled, at the Witcher’s hand, which had remained resting gently on the bard’s shoulder. Geralt immediately withdrew it, fingers flexing at his side as he fought back a ridiculous urge to stroke Jaskier’s sweat-soaked hair.

“Hmmm,” came the familiar exhale, somewhat unsettled. If Jaskier noticed, he didn’t say anything, as the Witcher vanished from his side and back into his own bed. The bard stared at the ceiling for hours afterwards, unwilling to relinquish himself to sleep. Images of what he’d seen in the cave still pounded in Jaskier’s head, refusing to leave him in peace.

They left the next morning. This time, Jaskier woke to the sound of someone rustling about the room. He opened his eyes to see Geralt strapping his armour on, his pack ready to go.

“Oh, good,” the bard yawned satirically, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “You know, I was getting sick of sleeping on a soft mattress anyways. Does terrible things to the back.”

“You don’t have to come.”

Jaskier simply scoffed at the idea, like there was no question at all of his presence. It was true, the Witcher thought, that this was the longest Jaskier had accompanied them since the first time he’d managed to shake the bard. Their initial parting was not to be for long, however, because a month later Geralt had stumbled across him outside a tavern, backing away quickly from an extremely angry-looking man. Upon spotting him, Jaskier had called out, ‘Ah, Geralt!’, greeting him with much relief but little surprise, like the Witcher was an old friend he’d been expecting.

Geralt had obliged to scare off the furious cuckold, and somehow found himself stuck with a travelling companion once again. Their relationship had continued in this on-and-off pattern for months, until this recent stretch.

The Witcher found that, strangely, he didn’t mind.

An hour later, they set out along the main road out of town, which allowed Jaskier to strum his lute as he worked out the chord sequence for his newest composition. When they traveled through the woods, Geralt insisted the lute be stowed, that it attracted unwanted attention and made them a target. Jaskier had pointed out that this ran counter to the Witcher’s earlier comment that the bard’s playing could drive a hungry manticore away. Geralt rebutted this argument by offering instead to smash the instrument so it could serve an actual purpose, as kindling. After that, the bard had left him in offended silence for a whole 20 minutes.

But on this bustling route, there was little threat of attack, and so Jaskier’s music accompanied them on the way out of town. Thankfully, this piece wasn’t about the highly fictionalized exploits of the White Wolf, or the equally exaggerated stories of Jaskier’s own conquests. Instead, it was the simple story of a young seamstress, who fell in love with a druid. The melody was light and clear, and the Witcher caught himself nearly swaying in time with the rhythm.

Geralt was even a little disappointed, if his kind could be said to feel such a thing, when the music stopped so Jaskier could ask, “Where are we headed, anyway?”

The Witcher grunted. “There’s talk of a bumbakvetch in Temeria. Local lord is offering 2,000 ducat to whoever slays it.”

“Ah.” Pause. “A what?”

“Bumbakvetch.”

“Ohh, yes, of course.” Jaskier said, nodding sagely. Then, “And what exactly, pray tell, is a bumbakvetch?”

“Greater fiend. They’re rare.” Geralt knew without looking that the bard was salivating over the idea of the mysterious monster whose head could fetch such a price.

“Have you fought one before?” Jaskier asked, failing to conceal his excitement at this great tale in the making.

“Once.”

Jaskier spread his arms expectantly, looking up at the Witcher. “…And?”

“Killed it.”

The bard let his arms drop to his sides. “I don’t know what I expected,” he muttered.

After a few days’ uneventful travel, consisting mostly for Jaskier of walking, singing, walking, and more walking, they arrived at Stalwart Pass. It was a narrow, steep-walled canyon that would take them through the Mahakam Mountains, and on to Temeria. The bard looked up at the enormous, rocky peaks looming up in awe, the pass a dark gash cleaving them in two.

Night was dawning on them, and Geralt decided they would camp nearby before attempting to traverse it the next day. The path was rough, and while the Witcher’s night vision kept him graceful in the dark, he was sure Jaskier would leave no stone un-tripped over. Therefore, the bard was tasked with setting up their meagre camp, while Geralt stalked back into the woods they had just come from in search of a meal.

Once Jaskier had finished setting out the bedrolls and starting a small bonfire, the bard climbed up to relax on a nearby boulder, absently strumming his lute as he mused about a certain white-haired someone. As a performer, Jaskier thrived on the praise and admiration of his audience. So, it was completely in character that he had bound himself to the toughest one-man crowd imaginable.

Gaining Geralt’s approval was Jaskier’s greatest challenge, and something he seemed no closer to with each passing day. From his very first encounter with the Witcher, Jaskier had desperately longed for an opportunity when Geralt would say ‘Jump’ so the bard could ask ‘How high?’. Unfortunately, the closest he got was when the Witcher got fed up with his singing and roared at him to go jump off a cliff. At those times, Jaskier figured he probably didn’t want to know the answer to how high.

Humming a quiet tune, he looked pensively up at the stars twinkling into view above his head. Cold and untouchable. Like someone else he knew.

Still, the longer he accompanied the Witcher, Jaskier noticed that more and more, he didn’t help out expecting praise. There was a desire to simply please the man, see those otherworldly eyes glow with something other than rage or bloodlust. He just wasn’t sure what this meant for their relationship. Was Geralt a paternal substitute for him? Melitele, he hoped not. In theory, the point of a father figure was to be more emotionally available than one’s actual father, and those are two words that have certainly never described Geralt. Or any Witcher, Jaskier imagined.

A quiet rustle from the nearby bushes drew the bard’s attention from his musings, and his eyes widened in alarm. Gripping his lute tightly, Jaskier called out apprehensively. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

In response, the shrubbery shivered briefly before expelling a large rabbit, taking small hops as its nose twitched in the evening air. Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled down at the beady-eyed little critter. “You should probably get out of here,” the bard advised, stretching out. “Much scarier predators than me in this neck of the woods.” The rabbit’s head perked up, ears flicking, as if it understood him.

Then, the sound of a low whistle followed by a fleshy smack, and the bunny was thrown several feet before landing in a limp pile of bloodied fur. Jaskier yelped like a maiden, scrambling further up his boulder, until he noticed two yellow eyes flashing at him from the darkness. Geralt emerged, slingshot in one hand and a patronising smirk on his lips. “Sorry to interrupt. Were you two having a conversation?”

Jaskier scowled at him as he demanded, shrilly, “Was that _really_ necessary!?”

“Do you want to eat?”

Jaskier grumbled something about Witchers and their barbaric tendencies, but slid down from his rock to land clumsily on the ground, as Geralt began to skin and clean the animal. The bard retrieved the three carved sticks they carried as a makeshift spit, setting it up over the fire. The roasted rabbit was actually pretty good, plump and juicy. Jaskier grudgingly thanked the Witcher, which he accepted with a taciturn nod. The rest of the evening passed as it normally would, with the bard playing a few soft melodies, and Geralt staring silently into the fire, enigmatic as always. Strumming a final, haunting chord, Jaskier yawned and packed away his lute, crawling tiredly into his bedroll. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he murmured sleepily to the watchful Witcher. The bard closed his eyes, a smile tracing his lips at the answering grunt.

Geralt watched Jaskier carefully as he drifted into sleep. They hadn’t spoken about it, but the bard had been having nightmares nearly every night since they’d left for Temeria. He would thrash and whimper continuously in his sleep. Even so, the Witcher had made no attempt to wake Jaskier since the first time, when the bard had stared at him like Geralt had been a rotfiend hovering over his bed. During these long nights, his fingers itched to form Axii, to ease Jaskier’s tormented dreams so they both could sleep, but some part of him vehemently rejected the idea. Something about the thought of influencing Jaskier’s mind was utterly repulsive to Geralt, so he grit his teeth and bore the sleepless nights without comment.

Right on cue, the bard began shaking slightly, his formerly relaxed face pulling up into a grimace. The Witcher sighed, and moved from his bedroll to sit with his back against the boulder Jaskier had been lounging on earlier, facing away from their campsite. From here, he could still keep watch, but his companion’s distracting noises were muffled. Geralt drew his swords from their sheath and began to clean and sharpen them, letting his concentration narrow to the familiar, repetitive motions.

The moon was high when the Witcher finally ran out of equipment to polish. Settling on the uncomfortable, craggy ground, he attempted to meditate, ignoring Jaskier’s tossing and turning.

_Crunch._ The Witcher’s yellow eyes snapped open a second later as he heard the sound, his hand tightening around the hilt of his silver blade. Geralt rose, silently, eyes scanning for threats. He spotted them, two hunched shapes lurking beyond the fading glow of their campfire. To a human, they would have been invisible, but the Witcher could clearly make out the features of two men, one young and one older, observing their campsite.

Geralt glanced to where Jaskier was lying, asleep and vulnerable as the two intruders watched. Like a wraith, he slipped around the boulder to get behind the men, prowling forward until his sword was resting against the throat of the senior one. “Who the fuck are you?” Geralt growled out.

His partner, a boy who couldn’t have been more than 16, yelled in shock at the Witcher’s sudden appearance, backpedaling frantically and drawing a small knife. The man beneath Geralt’s blade reacted more calmly, tensing up but not struggling. When he spoke, his voice was anxious, but steady. “Forgive us, sir. My son and I live on a farm nearby, and we saw your fire. We just came to make sure you weren’t the wrong sort.”

“Who’s the wrong sort?” Geralt asked, his tone hard. The man gulped fearfully against the steel at his throat.

“Bandits, or other miscreants that would give my family trouble.”

“Hm.” The Witcher slowly withdrew his blade, stepping backwards. The man immediately went to his son, gripping the boy’s knife-hand until he lowered the toothpick. _Smart._ To the side, Jaskier was beginning to stir on his bedroll, and Geralt’s eyes flashed towards him, catching the light of the dying fire.

“Pa,” said the boy, gripping the handle of his knife, eyes wide. “He’s a Witcher.” His father inhaled audibly, and Geralt gritted his teeth. He opened his mouth to tell the pair their farm was under no threat from him, so long as they left him alone, but before he could, the man interrupted, stepping forward.

“A Witcher?” he asked hoarsely, suddenly desperate, hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Could you… can you help us?” Geralt’s jaw tensed in surprise at the request, and he looked away from the man’s pleading gaze, preparing to refuse. He noticed that across the camp, Jaskier was struggling to his feet, finally woken by the commotion.

“Geralt?” he called, sleepily. “What’s going on?” the bard made his way to the Witcher’s side, stumbling as he strained to see in the low light. Jaskier stopped in front of their unexpected guests, squinting.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” he frowned at the farmer and his son, both of whom seemed rather shocked by the Witcher’s choice of travel companion. Little did they know, _his_ choice hadn’t really factored into it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasped dryly. “Kind of you to join us.” The bard huffed, but ignored him, instead peering curiously at the strangers in their camp and waiting for an explanation.

The farmer, over his surprise, gestured to himself. “My name is Berig, and my son here is Dacon. We came to… make sure you were good folk.” Jaskier nodded understandingly, then took a breath before launching into his own introductions.

“Well sir, let me assure you; my companion and I have naught but the purest intentions at heart! I am Jaskier, famous bard of the Continent.” Jaskier dramatically clapped a hand to his chest as he said this, then reached up to place his other one on Geralt’s shoulder. “And, as you may have surmised, my friend here, the Witcher, is no less than the White Wolf himself: Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt shrugged the bard’s hand off. How he was able to switch into theatrics within a few minutes of waking was baffling to the Witcher, but he didn’t let it show. Instead he glowered at Jaskier, who wasn’t at all stayed.

“I am accompanying Geralt on his way to slay a rare and vicious beast that has been plaguing the poor people of Temeria,” the bard continued, making grandiose gestures, when the farmer interrupted him.

“You’re headed through the pass, then?” Berig asked, something strange in his voice.

Jaskier sounded a little put out that he had been cut off, but he informed the man that “As it happens, yes.”

“You can’t!” the boy, Dacon, blurted out, a look of fear on his face.

Suddenly, the Witcher was interested, and he tilted his head to look at the boy, yellow eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“That’s why we need your help, Witcher,” Berig interjected, and suddenly Geralt noticed what he should’ve before, what had become apparent. There were deep, dark circles beneath the farmer’s eyes, and large patches of his hair were grey. They weren’t the natural silver of a life long-lived, but rather ashen streaks born of intense stress. The boy, too, looked unnaturally tired, posture too hunched for someone of his young age.

Geralt’s eyes flickered dangerously. “What’s in the canyon.”

Berig involuntarily glanced towards Stalwart Pass, a shade of horror flickering in his tired eyes. The farmer breathed deeply, and gave a watery smile. “Look, why don’t you and your friend,” he nodded to Jaskier, who shot Geralt a smug look. “Join us at our home? I can explain there. It’s not much, but there’s a solid roof, and spare beds.” The farmer’s voice choked a little on the last part, and his son furiously scrubbed a tear from his eye.

Geralt was wary to accept the offer, but Jaskier jumped on it gladly. “We would be honoured!” chimed the bard, eager to exchange the hard ground for a soft mattress.

“…Fine,” the Witcher agreed, unenthused. They made short work of the camp, and Berig lead the way towards his home, Dacon close by his side. Geralt led Roach on foot, vaguely aware that it was impolite to ride while your companions walked.

There was also the added benefit that it made Jaskier, walking beside him, absolutely infuriated. The bard kept shaking his head and huffing in disbelief as Geralt strode smoothly, in perfect lockstep with his horse. It didn’t help matters that Jaskier was still nearly blind in the darkness, and constantly losing his footing on the rocky ground. At one point, a stone slipped under him and the bard would have smacked his head on the ground, were it not for Geralt throwing out an arm at the last second to catch him.

After that, the Witcher allowed Jaskier to keep a hand on his shoulder, letting his enhanced senses guide them both, as well as stabilize the clumsy bard. Shockingly, Jaskier didn’t find the need to comment at length about this, simply grateful for the support. In front of them, Berig and his son were having little trouble navigating onward, obviously familiar with the terrain. Before long, they arrived at their destination, a farmhouse. It sat, small and welcoming, in stark contrast to the enormous mountain towering over it.

Berig showed Geralt where he could hitch Roach to a fence post, keeping the rope long enough that the mare could nibble on the grass. Inside, the house should have been homely and charming, but there was a disturbing emptiness to it. Berig gestured for them to sit at the homemade dinner table, while Dacon went to light the cold hearth. Once they were all seated, Geralt cut to the chase. “What attacked your family?” he asked slowly, golden eyes boring into the farmer’s brown ones.

Berig pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling tears. “My… wife,” he began, mustering strength, his eyes averting themselves from the Witcher’s. “She traveled into the mountains to collect healing herbs. Our daughter was very ill, and Darla is, was, a healer.”

Geralt looked at him measuredly, waiting for when the information became relevant. He was impatient to hear the point, but knew from experience there was no rushing a man in grief.

“She had only been gone a few hours when we heard it. A scream, like nothin’ you’ve ever heard before. Dacon was near the pass, hunting while we waited for Darla to return. He saw it – the body – fall from the cliff.”

Dacon was weeping now, fat tears dripping against the wood. The boy furiously wiped at his eyes. The Witcher gave him a moment, as the boy’s father had fallen silent. Unfortunately, a moment was all Geralt had to spare, keen on getting some sleep that night. He had to reach Temeria before some other Witcher could take the lucrative fiend contract, and they would cover more ground having rested. “And?” Geralt prompted intently, as gentle as he knew. The boy looked up at him with watery eyes.

“It was Mum. She’d been torn apart,” whimpered Dacon. “Her neck was snapped. And then I heard it again – that scream, like some kinda animal, but worse.” The boy looked at the Witcher with haunted, bloodshot eyes, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“He came to get me, and we brought Darla’s body back here.” The Witcher’s gaze snapped back to Berig as he spoke again, voice suddenly wooden. “We had to tell my daughter Cynthia that her mother was dead, that we had no medicine for her ailment. And all night we kept hearing those awful sounds coming from the pass. The next day, we buried my wife.”

The farmer let out a shuddering sigh. “And then, not half a day after we had laid Darla to rest, Cynthia passed. It was sudden. She should have had more time; she hadn’t yet become that ill. Not to the point of death.”

Geralt grimaced, trying to convey sympathy or at least respect. But he still needed to know. “Did you bury them off the property?”

Berig gave him a strange look, but nodded. The Witcher grunted. _Good._ Hopefully they wouldn’t be returning home, then. The farmer cleared his throat. “I’ve heard stories, Witcher. Tales of creatures that summon death with their cry. And my wife’s wounds… those weren’t made by any human, or animal. She was hardly in one piece.” Berig broke off into a sob.

So, the man thought it was a banshee. _Perhaps._ Geralt gave the farmer a long look. “I don’t work for free,” the Witcher told him, flatly but not unkindly. Berig nodded.

“We can pay. 100 ducat.” Geralt considered this for a moment, then agreed. The bard, who had been oddly silent, shot him an undecipherable look. 100 ducat was far less than the Witcher would normally take for this kind of job, and Jaskier knew it.

Geralt stood from the table. “I’ll go now. Wraiths rarely stick around in the daytime, and I don’t have time to waste.”

Berig looked surprised, but grateful. “Is there anything we can give you to help?” The Witcher considered the question. Last time he had fought a creature, his enhanced senses had nearly rendered him incapacitated by the screams. If the spirit occupying the canyon was indeed what he thought, it might be prudent for Geralt to invest in some ear protection.

“Have you any spare wool?”

Geralt shoved the wool in his ears, securing it with a strip of fabric he wrapped over his head and tied around his chin. He was standing outside, beside Roach, gently stroking her flank. Banshees made their nests high, and the winding path Berig had shown him to the top of the nearest mountain wasn’t fit for hooves. She would have to remain here until he returned.

The Witcher felt another presence approaching, and turned to see his ever-present bard wandering out of the farmhouse towards him. Jaskier took one look at Geralt, and his eyes widened comically, bringing a hand to his mouth. “What a… lovely bonnet,” the bard managed to choke out, before dissolving into a fit of laughter. The Witcher ignored him with his usual irritated grimace.

Jaskier remained at his side as he set off, away from the farmhouse. “Stay here, bard,” Geralt growled. Or, thought he did. The Witcher was unable to hear his own voice as he spoke, and so the command came out as more of a gentle murmur. The bard was a little taken aback by the strange cadence of his voice, but didn’t cease following him, until Geralt stopped in his tracks. The Witcher turned to glare at him, soundlessly. The intimidating effect was ever so slightly diminished by the headband, wrapped snugly over his ears.

“You should have someone with you who is able to hear,” Jaskier argued loudly, exaggerating the syllables so that Geralt could read his lips. The Witcher sighed, but turned around and kept walking in grudging acquiescence. Jaskier noted that it had been far easier to convince Geralt to allow the bard to accompany him recently, and wondered about it. The night air blew cold against his back, and the bard shivered, jogging to catch up with his companion as the Witcher headed towards the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments and kudos! Next chapter should be up sometime soon, and then we'll see some more monster fighting.


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